by Ned Williams
Our school didn’t possess a facility for this particular provision for our health and welfare, so, once a week, after the day was over, we had to clamber onboard a bus to make a half hour journey to the nearest public baths. The teacher who took us was the proud owner of a car and used it to cunning effect. When the day for our expedition to the baths arrived, he would sidle up to five of his current favourite boys and offer them a lift. They were instructed to meet him at a certain place about three hundred yards from the school gates. We were told that it was to save us a little money in bus fares. Our journey there was light hearted and fun. He was almost a different person. In his class, he was strict and tended to shout a lot but on our journeys, he was funny and easy going. It must be said that, on the ride, he neither touched nor made any sexual innuendo to any of us but he did have another little trick up his sleeve. One of his duties was to teach us life saving. When we had to crook our arms around one another’s neck and pull the simulated drowning boy to the edge of the pool, he merely watched and advised but when we had to turn the victim on his back, lie on top of him and push him to the edge, he always volunteered to be the drowning man. With pubescent boys, performing the breast stroke with their legs and moving up and down on him, it was easy to realise that he was getting off on the whole thing. We all knew what he was up to, but no one said anything – we merely commented on his erection and giggled at him behind his back. I don’t know what we would have done if he had actually propositioned any of us but, as he never did, I don’t suppose it matters.
One of the few real friends I had at this time was a lad called Brian. In many ways, we were a mismatched pair. For a couple of years we had hung around together and we were now in the same class. Like myself, he was an ‘only child’ and this, I believe, was the chief cause of our compatibility. Although, away from school, we only saw one another a couple of times a week, there was a pleasant bond between us. I trusted him. He had never borrowed any money from me, or taken advantage of my generosity at the tuck shop. He had a wicked sense of humour and refused to take life too seriously. At the time, he was everything I wanted to be. I suspect I was keener on developing the friendship than he. He was a naturally popular lad who didn’t feel the need to be so.
One day I went around to call on him; to see if he wanted to hang out for a while. His stepmother answered the front door and told me to go on up to his room. This I did – and I walked straight in to find Brian sprawled out on his bed, starkers and happily enjoying his erection. I think I must have come just as he was about to! As I blundered in, he grabbed a shirt to cover his considerable embarrassment.
“Fucking hell, Steve, what you tryin’ to do to me?” He shouted. I grinned, knowingly.
“Sorry, Brian. Didn’t mean to interrupt your fun.” I watched him as he attempted to get dressed. His brave exertions in hiding his wobbling manhood made me smile. “Don’t worry, I sometimes have that problem, too.”
“Hang on. I’ll be with you in a minute.” He finished dressing and went out to the lavatory. I sat on his bed and waited, glancing through the film magazine which was lying on the bed cover. It was packed with photographs of starlets, wearing swimming costumes. He must have been using it to stimulate his imagination. So, Brian was another one who had worked out what to do with his penis. When he came back, Brian’s usual composure had returned, although, he sat in such a way that any remnant of his protuberance was tucked well out of sight.
“Aren’t you afraid your parents will walk in and catch you?”
He shrugged. “Nah! This is my room. They never come in here unless I invite them. When they want to come in, off their own bat, they have to knock and wait for me to give them the all clear.”
“Really?” I blinked in awe.
“Yeah. Why not? It’s my room – my area. Private!”
“What? Cor, you lucky thing. I wish my Mum was like that.” The awe I felt was genuine. Brian appeared to dismiss the incident from his mind – but I later discovered that he enjoyed danger and was determined to have a good ‘muck around’ with me – one day.
Thanks to my enforced generosity, my popularity at school was, on the whole, steadily increasing. I was fully aware that the affection was an old fashioned case of cupboard love, but I didn’t mind. It suited me. From being an outsider, I was becoming a person of significance. After I had caught him ‘in the act’, Brian asked me around to his place more and more often. I think he was pleased to be able to discuss his problems with a friend. Not that I was in any position to offer him any advice on all the girls which were catching his eye. In a small way, we became sexually free with each other, as most boys do at that age. The only difference being, I knew what I was doing and how to please him.
Brian, in turn, communicated our games to others in our class. My upbringing had conditioned me into keeping quiet about anything of a sexual nature, but Brian had no such compunction. Pretty soon, a whole gang of us met in various friends’ houses whilst their parents were out, to indulge in some harmless sexual discovery through boisterous games and clowning around with mock wrestling, intimate tickling, flashing etcetera. I feared it might have been getting out of control, but no one seemed to mind. I also had a dread that if there were any repercussions through our activities; I would get into trouble as being some sort of ringleader.
We also began to hang out at the local railway station. Even during the day, trains stopped there infrequently but after six o’clock, the timetable ceased altogether. The place became deserted and it was never locked. Lights were turned out and it became a dark and mysterious cavern. Every evening, at dusk, we took to congregating there. Once Brian had let slip about our private sessions, the others wanted to try as well. The waiting room became a venue for sexual services and I was the person who did the servicing. They took it in turns to have their tensions relieved whilst the rest queued up outside loudly and cheekily talking about the girls they wanted to date. From time to time the more adventurous came in to be serviced in pairs or trios. This was the first time I had been involved in anything resembling an orgy and I must confess that it excited me. For some of my class, once wasn’t enough. They left the waiting room, temporarily satisfied, and rejoined the back of the queue. It was fun – for me, and a convenient ‘once–over’ for them. I wonder if the next day’s commuters were suspicious of the streaked and sticky floors that greeted them.
Virtually, the whole male population of my classroom became very free and easy about sex. The girls must have known something was going on, but they said little. I can only assume they were engaged in much the same thing.
Yes, we boys were beginning to become quite outrageous. One afternoon during one of those lessons where the boys were segregated from the girls (Technical Drawing I think), the teacher, Mr Pickett, who was particularly boring, was out of the room. One lad called Daniel called out, “Hey, look, everybody. I fancy a bit of a change of look.” He stood up, undid his flies and flopped out his erect prick. “What d’you think, eh?” He produced, a small pot of poster paint and proceeded to stain his dick bright blue. Don’t ask me where he acquired the paint, but our Dan did a thoroughly good job.
The attention of the whole class was upon him.
“Oi, Dan,” encouraged another lad, “I wonder if the colours’ll run if you squirt your stuff.”
Dan, instead of jeering an answer, thought it a good idea. “Hang on a minute, let’s see.” He began wanking himself off. “Someone keep watch, will yer?” One member of our class stood by the door in order to keep a lookout for our wandering tutor.
“Cor, it does. Look.” He’d quickly shot his load. Being as poster paint is water based, it was hardly surprising it added to the blue mess. The rest of us thought it funny.
“Watch it, Old Picket Fence is coming!” Hissed out our sentry.
“Bugger!” wailed poor Dan. He was still fighting with his rigid cock when the teacher walked in. He had abandoned any attempt at drying himself with a handkerchief and stuffed hi
s blue swollen appendage into his pants without another thought. I couldn’t help wondering what his mother would say when it came to washing them. Dan, in his rush to resume normality, was so intent on adjusting his trousers; he nearly fell off his chair. Fortunately for him, our learned leader was too preoccupied with his pile of new text books to register the boy’s dilemma; although, he did enquire as to why the rest of us were smirking like a load of buffoons.
I sometimes worry if I could possibly have contributed to some sort of sex hang–up amongst my friends. Could I have damaged them because of the sexual freedom we all explored? I don’t believe so. I think it was merely a case of a group of lads who happened to be rather free about sex. They were a group of like–minded, randy school kids who were hungry for experimentation and I could help them in their studies. Anyway, if reports are true, most of them ended up happily married with troupes of kids, so I can’t believe there was any long–term damage done. Perhaps this journey into the world of sensuality helped them – in some strange way. It could have made them into better, more understanding husbands. Who can tell? Am I merely making excuses for what went on? Because of my tender age, should I have any feelings of guilt? I can’t imagine ours was the only group of adolescents who explored to this degree.
News quickly spread from our class to the other boys in my year about our little gatherings. Pretty soon it became known there was a local expert on sex. It happened to be yours truly. I became a sort of counsellor to the rest of my year. Don’t misunderstand me, I was certainly no expert, but the one–eyed boy was king! I even managed to give them a little advice on what to do with the fairer sex – and they actually believed that I knew something about it. Naturally, all this boosted my ego to the sky. I even had open offers for private sessions to show the more shy and uninitiated what to do with their unpredictable organs. Most offers, I must confess, I took up. They soon realised it was better and more pleasurable to have someone else jerk them off, instead of doing it themselves. They also had the added dimension of being orally stimulated, which seemed to excite them in a way they had never experienced before. Poor, mad fools.
I was sometimes invited to stay over at friends’ places, but this was impossible, as my mother would never allow it. I think it was a case of ‘I don’t especially want him, but no one else can have him either.’ The occasional schoolmate stayed with me – when my mother was feeling slightly generous – and good times were had by all! Although, she was slightly puzzled as to why her son, who normally tried to bargain his way into retiring after his bed time, was eager to get into his pit long before he was due. She must have thought that we were in my room, looking at my toys and talking. As soon as we were in my bedroom, my mother would leave to visit a member of her family. With my mother out and her young charge in bed with a cute school friend, my father, sitting alone in the living room, must have had a very frustrating time of it.
Some Full Regulars
Before James called a halt to our little assignations, I managed to extract from him the location of other local toilets where things might happen. These fell into two specific camps. The first group was classified as ‘jumping’ and were regularly visited by men who were looking for thrills and, with a little ingenuity, could be persuaded into paying for them. The second was dismissed as places where either nothing ever happened, or were used by people who wouldn’t be interested in paying anyway.
Our little slice of suburbia contained a few municipal, open parks. One of these had been allowed to go ‘rural’, providing an amenity for the sort of deeds which I don’t think the council ever intended. Late at night, it doubled as a pick–up place for men. I’d heard whispers about it and wanted to find out more. As it turned out, it was of no use to me. For a start, things didn’t get underway until after midnight and it only fully sprang into life in the early hours of the morning. Even if this space proved a potential market, because of my age and inability to stay out late, it was totally excluded from my world. I could imagine mother’s face if I went to her and happily announced I wanted to stay out until four in the morning – on my own – in the open air.
Because of the new horizons which James had revealed to me, I now saw two or three people on a fairly regular basis. I had also learned to say, ‘No!’ if I suspected the tricks expected something for nothing. The real progress on my revenge was my scale of charges. From my ‘pound a perv’, I now tended to charge three or four per session. My price had gone up.
These sessions didn’t progress, sexually, much further than I had already experienced. That is not to say demands weren’t made – I just refused to get involved in anything I wasn’t prepared to do. Even if a client tried to tempt me with a considerable cash bonus, I put my foot down and declined. It was easy to call a halt to any session I felt was going too far. My few clients accepted this with comparatively few complaints. Although, I think, they hoped for a great deal more, they seemed happy to approve the little I was prepared to give. I know that, if I had been more co–operative and gone a lot further, I could have been rolling in it. Having said that, I had screwed my first client and I was beginning to indulge in some mild fantasy sex–play. I always remained in control during these excursions. This was a determined philosophy I was to follow throughout my life on the streets. In fact, even today, I still refuse to be forced into doing anything I don’t like, or feel unhappy about.
I saw most of my clients at the weekends because my mother worked every Saturday and I was left to my own devices. Because she was used to me going off alone, she didn’t suspect I was not staring at foxes in fields. Sundays in the family home was a lazy day that involved eating enormous dinners and then sleeping them off. With their blessing, I could go out to ‘play’ so they didn’t have any noise to disturb their bloated snoozing. It couldn’t have suited me more.
The most popular game which my clients loved to play was fairly obvious and easy for me to perform. Being the age I was, I soon discovered the tricks liked me to wear my school uniform. I hated the thing but, as it increased my demand, I was happy to oblige. This may sound strange and sick to any straight reader who has accidentally picked up this account, but, think about it – it’s no different to a lot of men who are turned on by girls and women in gym–slips. This is merely the gay equivalent. My mother constantly complained that I never wore casual clothes as much as she thought I should.
“At one time, my son, I couldn’t get you out of your jeans, and now I can’t get you into them,” she moaned. Admittedly, I did seem to wear out more uniforms than the rest of my school friends.
Most of the regulars I’d collected were fairly nondescript in their needs. There was only one exception to this strict rule – and that was Frank who was my first client who could be described as having a ‘kink’.
Frank was in his early forties and lived on his own. Each time I visited him and as soon as I walked through the front door, he insisted I sit down. “Here, have a lovely Coca–Cola.”
“Just one,” I’d say.
“Oh no, no, no, no, no. It’s good for the system. You should regularly flush out all those nasty little impurities. It’s important to irrigate those kidneys of yours.” He tilted the glass bottle to my lips as he rambled. “Come on, have another.”
“Oh, all right, then,” and I guzzled down the contents of another bottle.
He then continued his regime of force feeding me as much Coca–Cola as I could drink. More, if I could manage it! For the next hour, during which the liquid worked its way through my system, he paid my fee and engaged in occasional small talk. The possibility of a sustained conversation was limited because he was too intent on compelling me to imbibe even more bottles.
Eventually, my bladder was on the verge of committing suicide. “Where’s the toilet?” I had to ask. I knew bloody well where it was, but I still had to ask. It was the signal that I was ready.
“Upstairs – first door on the left. But wait a moment, I want to go first.” He’d shoot out of the
door and pound his way up the stairs. I had to remain in my seat for about another five minutes before following him by which time my digestive system had almost given up the ghost.
As I entered the combined bathroom and toilet, I had to pay no attention to the fact he was lying in the bath with his eyes closed, wearing nothing but his underwear. The fantasy continued as I, fully clothed, had to ignore him and pretend the bath was the toilet bowl. He wanted my urine to go all over him. He watched the fountain of piss as it trickled over his body and he writhed and moaned a great deal as I was performing. Once I had shaken my cock, put it away and zipped up, I went downstairs and let myself out so he could jerk himself off in private.
‘Golden Rain’ had never particularly been of interest to me but, as Frank paid a little more for the privilege, I didn’t mind too much. I kept my dignity – or what was left of it.
I also gained another punter by subtle betrayal. There was this one camp guy whose passion was collecting original works of art by local, young, male artists! Caution compelled me to keep quiet about my own modest abilities. One Sunday, he asked me to come around at three o’clock sharp. We had a short session in his bedroom and after, as I was about to get dressed, he requested that I only put on my underpants. An extra two pounds made me agree. I had already learned never to question these sorts of requests.
